


A Life Misunderstood

by TheReluctantShipper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Architect Dean Winchester, Car Accidents, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Mathematician Castiel, Professor Castiel, Profound Bond, Sam's Kind of a Dick But He Comes Around, Slightly Autistic Castiel, Understanding Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-07 11:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17365502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheReluctantShipper/pseuds/TheReluctantShipper
Summary: "It's okay to live a life others don't understand." - Jenna WoginrichNo one understands he and Cas, not really. Dean thinks it's not theirs to understand.





	A Life Misunderstood

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is (obviously) a work of fanfiction. I don't own anything but the original characters. I don't claim ownership over the characters or storyline of the TV show Supernatural, no matter how grateful I am for them, which is hella.
> 
> \- Thanks to the Sister Husbands, who are my best friends in the whole world, and happen to be gracious enough to also beta most of my works for me. I don't know what I'd do without you girls, but I certainly wouldn't be doing this.
> 
> \- You can come see me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thereluctantshipper) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/TheReluctantSh1?s=09) if me sharing fan edits and bitching about writer's block floats your boat.
> 
> \- I come by any mistakes here honestly, but feel free to point them out so I can correct them.
> 
> \- Feedback is life.
> 
> \- Welcome to another one-shot inspired by _Bones._
> 
> \- Happy birthday, Dean!

Dean flings a hand out to stop the blaring of his alarm clock, growling in irritation. Unfortunately, Normal Dean is more cunning than Morning Dean gives him credit for, and the stupid thing is on a shelf across the room.

_Dammit._

It takes a few beats of time to get his bearings. The lack of grumbling that isn’t his tells him that he’s alone. When he reaches across the bed, the cool cotton confirms his suspicion. He sighs, because cuddles are the best way to wake up. Instead, he pats the tangle of sheets next to him and pulls himself out of bed.

When he leaves the bedroom, the smell of coffee perks him up. He debates at the doorway, because there’s a fifty-fifty shot that there’s nothing at all in that coffee pot. He decides to go ahead and put his faith in Cas and goes across the hall to the bathroom.

The shower wakes him up the rest of the way, and he goes back into the bedroom to dress quickly. He snags his phone and goes downstairs to get caffeine and sustenance.

His trust is rewarded when there’s at least half of a pot of coffee left. He pours himself a mug, makes a few pieces of toast (ignoring Sam’s voice in his head bitching about carbs), and unlocks his phone to scroll through Facebook.

Once he’s done with his own breakfast, Dean pours the rest of the coffee into a travel mug. He sets the pot up to brew again, pops a couple more pieces of bread into the toaster, and quickly washes his dishes. When the new toast is done, he butters it carefully, rinses the knife, and takes the plate with him as he descends the stairs down to the basement level of their home.

Every time he calls the basement “Cas’ Mad Scientist Lair,” the man in question tilts his head and squints in that way that still makes Dean grin and his heart flutter.

His response never changes. “I am a mathematician, not a scientist.”

Regardless, Dean will never stop calling it that. The basement is completely open concept, only a small room in the corner for the half bath. The rest of the house is comfortably furnished with overstuffed furniture and warm, brightly colored rugs covering the gleaming hardwood floors. Framed movie posters and memorabilia hang on the walls, just this side of too busy or crowded.

The basement walls are bare. The only furniture is a massive oak desk in the middle of the room with a _very_ nice ergonomic desk chair Dean got Cas for Christmas two years ago.

_(“Can’t have you getting back problems ‘cause you spend all your time down here starin’ at numbers, y’know.”_

_A guilty silence goes on for a couple of beats. “Dean…”_

_“Aw, Cas. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry.”_

_“I… I don’t…”_

_“Cas, sweetheart, no. Don’t. It’s okay. I know. I just don’t want you to hurt, okay? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. You don’t have to apologize for who you are.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Cas insists stubbornly._

_Dean sighs and cups Cas’ face, gratified when the older man leans into his touch. “You don’t have to be. I love you just like you are.”_

_“All right, then. Thank you for the chair.”_

_Dean brightens. “You’re welcome, Cas.”)_

The rest of the room is occupied by huge standing chalkboards. They roll, so they’re always kind of helter-skelter across the space. Some of them are clean, most are half-filled with equations and theories that even Dean only vaguely understands, and a few are crammed with writing from corner to corner. The room smells like chalk and just a little like sweat. Gross, but it’s incredibly comforting to Dean.

He weaves through the boards and finally reaches the desk where Cas is sitting, writing intently in a notebook. His hair is flat on one side, and Dean is willing to bet that Cas is just in boxers beneath that desk.

_Hot._

Cas doesn’t even look up at him as Dean approaches. He doesn’t acknowledge the plate that gets set on the desk next to the notebook he’s working in or the kiss Dean presses to the top of his head.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs. “Kevin’s coming in to clean up, feed you, _then_ work with you, and he will not be dissuaded on that order of events, so don’t even try. Also, I’ve got dinner with Sam tonight, so I’ll be home late.”

Cas continues to ignore him, which still stings after all this time, but Dean’s used to it. It makes the days he gets an immediate response, the days all of Cas’ attention is his, that much sweeter. He’s grateful that Cas isn’t touch-averse. He loves touching Cas, even if he’s often ignored while he does it.

He watches warmly as Cas reaches over to jot an equation on a bright green pad of sticky notes.

_(x² + y² - 1)³ - x² y³ = 0_

It’s simple, a code they agreed on a long time ago. Cas probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

Dean smiles and kisses the top of Cas’ head again. “I love you, too.”

* * *

Dean met Dr. Castiel Novak when he walked into the Abstract Algebra course he was required to take to get his degree for architecture.

The guy was hot, no doubt, but he was _strange._ He spoke in staccato bursts of energy, but would ignore questions asked of him, seemingly at random. He could get heated about mathematics, but seemed stoic to the point of incomprehension the rest of the time. It was baffling.

The more he watched Dr. Novak, however, the more he started to _get_ the professor. The easier it became to communicate with him, to get closer to his level (never on the _same_ level, though).

Honestly, the poor guy probably never saw Dean coming.

The evening they stayed after class and, uh, _christened_ Cas’ desk remains one of the most intense nights of Dean’s life. Apparently, when Cas pulls himself out of whatever numeric haze he usually lives in, he still looks at pretty much everything around him like an equation.

And goddamn, does he love trying to solve Dean.

While he kind of intended it to be just a (really hot) fling, Dean found himself falling in love with his professor. He knows, too, that Cas feels the same way.

No matter what anyone else says.

* * *

Dinner with Sam is great until it’s not.

Dean will always love his brother, and he’ll always love spending time with him. Hell, he followed the kid to Stanford, didn’t he?

A lot of that is probably from their childhood. When they were growing up, it was Sam and Dean against their alcoholic, absent father, against bullies and judgemental teachers who didn’t bother to look past the second-hand clothes Dean scrimped and saved for.

Dean went right to work after high school, waiting for Sam to graduate and decide on a college. It was a simple choice to pick up and follow Sam to California. Though John Winchester had cleaned up his act by then, Dean knew some distance would be the best thing to repair the strain on their family.

It was harder to get himself to enroll in college, and an utter shock when he got in.

He worked his ass off, though, and managed to graduate with a degree that makes people call him an architect. By that time, he and Cas had already moved in together, and he had little trouble finding a job. Sam started working at a law firm close by, so it was all pretty much perfect in Dean’s book.

Except for this.

“Sam,” Dean says with a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Sam’s face is set in a mulish expression. “I’m telling you, Dean, I think-”

Despite how supportive Sam was when Dean came out as bi, he _hates_ Cas. Dean doesn’t get how anyone could hate Cas, but just the mention of him always has Sam’s blood pressure skyrocketing.

Lately, it feels like they argue about Cas every time they’re together.

“I just think it’s unfair,” Sam starts.

“Sam,” Dean says, interrupts, begs. “C’mon, man. Let’s not. Can we just have dinner? I haven’t seen you in ages!”

Sam sits forward eagerly. “That’s my point, Dean! You never come _out_ with us anymore! It’s like he’s keeping you shut up. And when you _do_ come out, he’s never with you! It’s like he’s… _Ashamed_ of you or something!”

Dean sighs and lets his eyes fall closed in defeat and hurt. Everything Sam is saying is knocking loose some old, deep insecurities within Dean. Insecurities that Cas worked hard to lay to rest, and it sucks to hear them out loud.

“It’s not like that,” he says, his voice a little weaker than he’d really like. “Cas is just-”

“He treats you like his _side piece,”_ Sam hisses, “and I’m _sick_ of it!”

Dean’s jaw drops open for a moment. _What?_ The idea that Cas would cheat on _anyone_ is ludicrous, but especially that he would cheat on or with _Dean._

Dean gently puts his fork down, then pulls his wallet out of his back pocket.

Sam’s face twists in surprise. “Dean, wait-”

“I get that Cas isn’t my ‘dream guy’ or whatever,” Dean’s voice is soft but firm. “He doesn’t give a damn about baseball, for starters, or movies. He doesn’t drink, either, the nerd. So I guess I get how it would be hard to see it from the outside.”

Dean throws enough cash on the table to cover both meals and a generous tip. Taking care of Sam is second nature, even when he’s being a shithead.

He meets Sam’s eyes when he speaks again. “But I love him, Sam. So much. Cas is it for me. So I need you to _finally_ get used to it.” He shrugs. “Or shut up about it. Either way.”

With that, he slides out of the booth and stands. He shrugs his leather jacket on and pulls his keys from the pocket.

“Dean,” Sam says, puppy eyes out in full force. “You don’t have to go. Come on, I’ll shut up.”

“No, you won’t.” Dean is so tired of this argument. “You haven’t so far. You’ll make snide little remarks about me ‘isolating myself,’ or how I ‘probably won’t go anyway,’ and I don’t want to listen to it tonight.” He gives his brother a stiff smile. “I love you, Sammy, but I’ll see you later, okay?”

He turns and walks out of the restaurant, ignoring the way Sam calls his name, without another word.

 _He doesn’t get it,_ he thinks, his chest filling with a dull ache. _I don’t know if he’ll ever get it._

That makes sense, unfortunately. Sam has always been very social, always outgoing and friendly. Since John was usually too drunk or hungover to do it, it often fell to Dean to take Sam to whatever club or get together he wanted to go to that day. And like hell was he gonna let his kid brother hang out with other stupid kids he barely knew alone. So Dean went with him.

It wasn’t until Sam was knee-deep in college, in meetings and study groups and night classes that Dean couldn’t join him in, that Dean realized he’s kind of a homebody. He much prefers hanging out with a close friend or two at home than going out.

On the heels of that realization came the realization that he and Sam were _exceptionally_ different, and that he may have actually been more unhappy than he thought growing up. It took a lot of help from Cas and a few of his good friends to get him to stop feeling guilty when he turned Sam down for drinks with big groups of people.

It’s unfortunate that his relationship with Cas began around the time Sam began to notice that Dean wasn’t going out anymore, he thinks as he pulls Baby out of the parking lot. He’s even willing to give Sam credit for having the difficult conversation when he thought Cas was abusive.

Now, though, Dean doesn’t know what to do. He has tried everything he can think of to reassure Sam, has tried to cobble the right combination of words together to convince his brother that he’s not being coerced, abused, or neglected in any way. Nothing has worked, and he’s tired of trying.

 _What the hell am I going to do?_ He refuses to choose between Sam and Cas, he just won’t do it. He’ll have to split his time between the two of them. He does that now, but he won’t lose either of them.

He’s too busy wrestling with his feelings of resentment, guilt, anger, and inadequacy.

He never sees the truck coming.

Everything goes black.

* * *

Everything is too bright in here. Too bright, too busy, too _loud._ It’s threatening to drive Sam Winchester insane.

After Dean left, Sam sat at their table for a while, glaring down at their food. He knows he was right, god dammit. Castiel treats Dean like he’s a mistress or a fling, and Sam is tired of it. Dean has done so much for Sam, he’s not going to give up on his big brother finding happiness. _Real_ happiness.

Then his phone rang.

The call that told him Dean had been in an accident must have aged Sam about eighty years. He immediately raced to the hospital, where he’s been getting words like “still evaluating,” “significant trauma,” and “he’s a fighter” thrown at him. He’s been able to see Dean between scans and testing over the last few hours, and it scared the shit out of him each time. Seeing his big brother, looking small and pale, hooked up to about thirty machines, made his heart twinge with sharp pain. _Fuck._

He’s in the waiting room, staring down at a styrofoam cup of surprisingly decent coffee. He’s exhausted and achey, but he resolutely refuses to leave Dean alone here, not until he knows for sure he’ll be all right.

It’s _because_ Sam is still sitting in the waiting room, cooling his heels until Dean is done with the latest test they want to perform, that he sees Castiel walk in.

The man looks… Rumpled. His suit, normally neat, is wrinkled, and his tie is backwards. There’s a few days worth of stubble present on his face, and his eyes are distant, distracted.

Sam’s blood burns.

Castiel looks around and goes to the nurse’s station. Sam can hear them from where he’s sitting, still unnoticed by Dean’s _whatever_ just a few feet away.

“I’m here looking for Dean Winchester? He was in a vehicular accident earlier this evening.”

The nurse smiles, his face open and honest. “Sure thing. What’s your name?”

“Castiel Novak.”

Sam has had enough. _“Much_ earlier,” he bites out, rising to stand.

The nurse and Castiel both turn to look at him. Castiel’s brow is furrowed. “Excuse me?”

 _Holy shit, he doesn’t recognize me._ “He was in the crash _hours_ ago, _Dr. Novak,”_ Sam sneers. “I don’t know where you were that was so important, but it doesn’t matter.” He steps forward to loom in a hopefully threatening manner over Castiel. Dean taught him that using his height to intimidate people is a dick move, but he doesn’t care.

“I don’t get whatever you’ve got going on with my brother,” he growls, “but it stops now. I am _done_ letting you treat him like a dirty little secret, like he doesn’t matter to you at all. This is the ICU, buddy. It’s immediately family only in there, and you’re _definitely_ not that.”

Castiel is outright frowning now. “That can’t be right.” He turns to the nurse as if for help. “I’m on his paperwork, am I not?”

The nurse looks wary, but nods. “Yes, sir. I can take you back to see your husband now.”

The words hit Sam like a punch to the gut. _Husband? That… That can’t be right. They’re not married. Dean would have told me if they got married. Better yet, Dean wouldn’t have_ gotten _married. That can’t be right._

Castiel isn’t smug, or satisfied, or triumphant when he looks at Sam again. He has the same faraway expression on his face.

“I have to go to Dean now,” he says evenly. “I hope that whatever is upsetting you resolves itself soon.” With that, he turns on his heel and follows the nurse down the hall to Dean’s room, leaving Sam sputtering in rage and confusion.

* * *

**_Three Weeks Later…_ **

“How’s it feel to be home?” Sam asks. He dumps his bag onto the floor just inside his dorm room and shuts the door behind him.

“Fucking _fantastic,”_ Dean moans on the other end of the phone. “You try being in a hospital where the nurses aren’t even hot for _two weeks.”_

“You were there for three weeks, jerk.”

“Yeah, well, I was only awake for two, bitch.”

Sam chuckles. The week Dean was in a medically induced coma was the longest week of his life. He was sick with fear and worry, and on top of that, he had to deal with Castiel every time he went to the hospital.

They let Dean wake up a week later, much to Sam’s everlasting relief. Hell, even _Castiel_ was less stone-faced when Dean blinked awake and whispered, “Heya, Cas.” (It stung a little that Castiel was first, sure, but Sam’s a big boy, he can get over it.)

Dean was released to go home yesterday. Sam gave him a day to get settled in before he called. He wants to know that Dean is doing all right, of course, but he also wants to talk about what he learned at the hospital.

Speaking of…

“Cas is acting kind of weird, though,” Dean admits softly, like it’s a secret.

Sam tries to think innocent thoughts. “Oh?”

“Yeah, man. He’s, like, tripping all over himself to help me with every little thing. Which is nice, sort of? I guess, but he’s freaking me out. Like, he hasn’t left my side since I woke up. I feel so fucking bad.”

 _“Why?”_ Sam snaps, incensed. _“Why_ would you feel bad? For Christ’s sake, Dean, you were in a _coma,_ the _least_ he could do is-”

Dean’s cold voice cuts him off. “This is you, isn’t it? You said something to him.”

“You were in a _coma,_ Dean! It took him four fucking hours to even _get_ there, and you think I should have kept my mouth shut?”

 _“Yeah,_ actually,” Dean says. His voice is harder and icier than Sam has ever heard it. Well, than he’s ever heard it directed at _him._

“It’s none of your fucking business, Sam. I don’t know how many ways I gotta come up with to tell you he’s not abusing me, or neglecting me, but for fuck’s sake. Now Cas is all up in his head about how he’s not a good enough husband, and how he’s not taking care of me, when I never needed to be taken care of in the first place!”

 _“Husband!”_ Sam shouts, latching onto the part of that sentence that pisses him off the most. “Dean, he didn’t even let you tell anyone you got married! That’s manipulation, pure and simple!”

“Jesus, he didn’t ‘not let me’ do anything, you unbelievable jackass-”

“He ignores you, he never comes with you to family events or holidays, he doesn’t-”

 _“Sam!”_ Dean’s voice is white-hot with anger now, and it occurs to Sam that this is the first time that Dean has ever been outright _mad_ at him.

It occurs to Sam that maybe he's a little bit spoiled when it comes to Dean.

“He doesn’t _ignore_ me,” Dean continues, calming down as he goes. “He’s just not speaking a language that _you_ speak. The only reason we even got married is because Cas’ health insurance through the university kicks ass and Sandover’s is crap. _He_ wanted to put me on his plan. We just did it at the courthouse one day, I don’t even think we took a picture. We don’t even wear _rings.”_

Sam doesn’t know what to do with that bit of information. “I don’t… I don’t, uh, understand.”

Dean sighs. “I know you don’t, Sam. I know. But it’s not yours to understand. It’s just that… Jeeze, I can’t believe you’re gonna make me say this. Okay. It’s like this. When we were growing up, everything I did was to take care of you. Everything I _had_ went to you, clothes, books, food, everything.” Sam opens his mouth, but Dean cuts him off again. “No, don’t argue, and don’t start being a bitch about it. I don’t resent it and I don’t regret it. Hell, the day you got into Stanford was one the best damn days of my life.

“But once we got here, it threw me for a loop. I mean, suddenly, you didn’t need to be fed or clothed or sheltered. I was kind of… Adrift, I guess? It’s one of the reasons I enrolled in classes myself. It kind of occurred to me that I’d have to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.”

Now, Dean’s voice goes soft, fond. “And then there was Cas. All of the sudden, here was someone who needed to be taken care of _so_ bad, and he didn’t even know it. And I really, really wanted to be taking care of someone. It worked for us. It’s _still_ working for us. I know it’s a little off-kilter, but it’s ours.

“He doesn’t come to family stuff because I don’t ask him to. It would make him so uncomfortable, Sam, and you know Dad would accuse him of being a drug addict or something. Being a jackass is written into that man’s DNA. I know Bobby and Ellen would be better, but I can’t do that to him. He offers every time, and I tell him to stay home.

“I just… I know you don’t get it, Sam, no one does. But I love him, and he loves me. We just don’t say it in ways anyone else can hear. He’s just… He doesn’t look it, but he’s soft. I gotta protect him, because he doesn’t know how to do it himself.”

* * *

Sam is staring at an office door, psyching himself to go in. The wood is dark and worn, the glass beveled. Gold-leaf lettering proclaims _Dr. Castiel Novak, Ph.D._

Sam _gets_ how much Dean has given up for him, he does. And he knows, now, that he fucked up. As long as Dean is happy and healthy, it doesn’t matter that whatever they’ve got going on is something Sam doesn’t recognize. Just like Dean said, it’s not his to understand.

So now he’s determined to apologize to Dean’s… Husband.

He finally gets up the courage to knock on the door, only to have it go unanswered. Frowning, he knocks a few more times before trying the knob. It’s unlocked, so he debates with himself for a beat before going in.

Castiel is there, writing on a chalkboard silently. Dean says (now that Sam is listening) that Castiel sometimes gets so into his work that it takes a while for the real world to sink in. So Sam just dives right in, knowing that he may have to repeat himself.

“Castiel,” he says, eyes roaming disinterestedly over the writing on the board, “Uh, I mean, Dr. Novak. I’m Sam, Dean’s younger brother? We’ve met before, but I wanted to apologize for what I said at… The…” His eyes catch on an equation. “At… The hospital…”

Sam Winchester is going to be a lawyer, just like he’s always wanted. There was a time, however, when he did take a few classes outside of his required curriculum. Sometimes it was to keep the number of credit hours per semester up so he could keep his scholarship, and sometimes it was purely out of interest in the topic. Regardless, the result is that Sam got pretty far into advanced mathematics classes before he quit to concentrate on his major.

The result of _that_ is that he can read most of Dr. Novak’s chalkboard.

The set of numbers that caught his eye are repetitive and shrinking, and it looks like…

“Laughter,” he breathes. “The vibrations of laughter.”

Castiel doesn’t stop writing, but he nods. “Very good, Sam.” A pause. “Dean has a striking laugh.”

Sam looks toward another equation, alongside a diagram. “This is… The Impala?”

“The engine as it was built in nineteen-sixty-seven,” Castiel confirms.

Another set of numbers, this time increasing incrementally. “This is… Well, it looks like projected weight gain.”

“Mhm. Pie.”

Sam laughs and continues down the board in awe until he reaches a complicated jumble of numbers and shapes that he can’t make sense of. He points to it. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure…”

Castiel doesn’t stop writing, but he does glance over. “Ah. I’ve always seen guilt as an enneagram, haven’t you? Manmade, but still prickly and painful.”

The words are akin to dumping a bucket of ice water on Sam’s head. “Uh…”

“You were quite right to be angry with me at the hospital.”

Sam blinks. “No, man, uh, sir. No, I-”

Castiel puts the chalk down in the metal tray with a too-loud _clack._ He’s still staring at the board. “Do you know he brought me breakfast that morning? Before he left for work, the day he met you for dinner?”

Sam stays quiet. Cas’ words are measured and slow.

“I don’t remember specifically, but I am quite sure that he told me what his plans were, told me he loved me, and kissed the top of my head. I am also quite sure that I ignored him, and that that hurt him.”

Castiel finally turns to meet Sam’s gaze, and the depth of emotion, guilt, and understanding in his blue eyes almost bowls Sam over.

“I feel very much for your brother, Sam, as much as I can. More than I… It isn’t enough, however, and I…” He looks frustrated. “I don’t have the words that he does. I can’t make him understand.”

In response, Sam looks over at the board. It’s easily twenty feet long and four feet high. Everything the two of them are is written there, in equations and numbers and unknowable variables. Days spent together, conversations, plots of movies they’ve watched, a small amount of time spent with mutual friends, meals shared with one another. The way Castiel feels about Dean, the _devotion,_ is there, spelled out completely to anyone who cares to know the language it’s written in.

To anyone who can understand.

To Dean.

And now, _now,_ Sam gets it.

His words are thick with feeling. “Oh, I think you do just fine, Cas.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- Google told me that _(x² + y² - 1)³ - x² y³ = 0_ is math for "I love you."


End file.
